It Catches Up To You
by Alice Day
Summary: An open murder investigation pits Brass against a vengeful husband, and Wendy Simms is caught in the crossfire. Jim/Catherine, and the fifth in a series.
1. Chapter 1

Entry #5 in the "A Year in the Life" series. An open murder investigation pits Brass against a vengeful husband, and Wendy Simms is caught in the crossfire. You know the drill -- CSI is not my sandbox. If it were, there would be greater consumption of good Mexican food and margaritas.

* * *

It Catches Up To You  
by Alice Day

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

The man stood on the sidewalk, ignoring the warm, dusty wind playing against his cheek. He smoked his cigarette and stared at the little stucco house with its gravel front yard. It was one of the ex-rentals that littered North Las Vegas, now sold by their former owners to snowbird retirees or burgeoning Hispanic families.

He'd lived in the stucco house a long time ago. He could still imagine Alana bustling in the kitchen, bringing him a cold beer while he talked with his brothers in the living room, or brushing her long black hair in the bedroom. It was going to be the house where everything started for them -- kids, decent jobs, a good life.

And then Lupo talked him into that dumbass holdup at the Citgo on Tropicana. They didn't expect an off-duty security guard to walk in while the clerk was emptying out the cash register. He definitely didn't expect Lupo to shoot at the guard, or the guard to shoot back. They hit each other square on, and Lupo died on the floor of the gas station, choking on his own blood. The guard died later, making it a felony murder, and the station's closed circuit camera caught it all.

The cops found him at home, throwing clothes into a bag. He could still hear Alana screaming as they pulled him into the cruiser. His trial was a joke; he had a record, the cops had him on the damned CC tape, and Lupo's blood was all over his clothes. Felony murder meant he went straight to the pen. Away from Alana, away from their home, away from their life.

_Fuck you, Lupo. I hope your sorry ass is roasting in hell._

He took a final puff, and tossed the cigarette to the sidewalk, crushing it out with his boot. He'd been in jail before; it was hard as hell, being away from Alana, but he knew how to work the system. And Alana was a fucking saint. She got a job as a cleaning lady for one of the casinos, and came every third Thursday and sat with him, talking about anything he wanted, kissing her fingertips and pressing them to the smeared glass before she left. She said she'd wait for him, and she did, not like some of the whores out there who found another man after a couple of weeks. Just knowing that she was out there kept him sane.

And then, years later, there was another holdup in North Las Vegas, this one hitting a 7-11. The _chingas du madre_ who held up the place shot the clerk and two other people, before emptying the cash register and taking off into the hot Vegas night. One of the victims had been Alana. She'd been shot in the lung, and died spitting blood onto the store's dirty tile floor.

His cellmate had one of those Word-A-Day calendars, and sometimes he'd read a definition for the hell of it. One of the words he'd learned was "irony." _Carida, I'm sorry. _

They'd let him out long enough to attend her funeral. He wore a borrowed suit that didn't fit him and a pair of handcuffs that chained him to a uniformed prison guard as his wife's coffin was lowered into the ground. Two months later, the parole board finally got tired of looking at his sorry ass and turned him loose. _Well, his wife's dead and we fucked him over good -- we can boot him out, now._

His brother still lived in North Las Vegas, and gave him crash space, hooking him up with a lawn service that didn't look too closely at their employee's green cards or backgrounds. He checked in with his parole officer like clockwork, slept on his brother's couch, worked like a fucking slave cutting grass and trimming bushes for rich people. And every so often he'd go past the house where he'd lived with Alana.

Some old snowbird owned it now, coming out occasionally to feed the stray cats that camped out in his carport. The snowbird had skin like old grey paper and body language that said every move hurt. He'd seen that look before with his Tio Alberto; the guy had cancer somewhere, eating away at him.

So he started making plans. He got worried when the snowbird disappeared for a week, but then some other old guy brought him back, pretty much lugging him into the house and dumping him on the couch. The old fart hadn't moved much since; if he wasn't dead already, he would be real soon.

So it had to be now. He needed a place, and the snowbird would be easy to handle. With any luck, he wouldn't even have to kill the old guy.

And the girl could take care of him in the meantime.

He glanced up and down the street, then headed to the house.

###

Jim Brass stood on the veranda of the mansion, trying to mask his nervousness as he rang the bell. He'd offered to pick up Ellie from her first session with her new LV therapist; to his surprise, she agreed.

He frowned at the architectural elements surrounding the door, wondering if the interior décor had changed at all in the last few years. _God, I hope so._ He still couldn't believe he was doing this, but the new shrink came highly recommended by Ellie's LA therapist, and Catherine supported the choice. "She understands how to put a life back together, Jim," the CSI advised. "I think she'll be good for Ellie."

The door opened, and a strikingly beautiful woman with dark auburn hair and slanted blue eyes stood there with a smile. "Hello, Captain Brass," she said in her warm alto. "It's good to see you again."

"Hello, L -- Dr. Kessler," Brass muttered. "Uh, is Ellie ready?"

His daughter appeared at the therapist's side. "Dad, you didn't have to come to the door," she chided.

He shrugged. "Just wanted you to know I was here," he said.

Ellie's lips pursed into something halfway between a smirk and a smile. "Well, now I know," she said, turning to Heather. "Dr. Kessler, this is my dad, Jim Brass."

"We've met before," the therapist said, keeping an admirably straight face. "I'll see you next week, Ellie?"

"Yeah. And thanks."

With a smile, Heather closed the door, and Brass followed Ellie down the steps to his car. "So..."

"So...it was interesting." The late afternoon sunlight broke through a bank of clouds in the west, glittering on Ellie's hair and giving her a temporary halo. "She's cool for a shrink. Kind of old-fashioned -- I mean, she actually made me tea, out of a teapot and everything. But I think it'll be good." She cocked her head to the side, considering him. "Where did you meet her before?"

"It's...a long story," the Homicide detective said warily. _I don't care what Ellie did in LA -- there is no fucking way I'm telling her about the Dominion and Lady Heather._ Instead, he checked his watch -- 5:02 PM. "Look, you want to grab something to eat?" he asked. "I could go for Don Miguel's."

Ellie grinned. "I'd kill for a chicken burrito right now," she admitted. "Wanna call Catherine and see if she can meet us?"

The increasingly warm relationship between Ellie and Catherine never ceased to tickle Brass. "I think she and Lindsey were supposed to go shopping," he said. "Let's just have dinner by ourselves -- I can drop you off at work afterwards."

"Sounds like a plan."

As they got into the car, he heard the rumble of thunder in the distance. _Rain on the way._

###

The man took a deep drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke trickle out of his nostrils as he watched the first drops of rain patter down on the cracked windshield. His brother was good about lending him the car every so often, as long as he put gas in it. It let him get out, do what he needed to do.

He spotted the Charger pulling out of the restaurant on Maryland, and pulled in two cars behind it. By now, he knew Don Miguel's was one of their pre-work hangouts. It was just a matter of waiting for them to show up.

Alana's killers were still out there, three months after he watched her coffin lowered into the ground. One of the first things he did when he got back on the street was find out who was supposed to investigate her death. It turned out to be two street cops and one Homicide detective -- Officer Davis, Officer Abels and Captain Brass.

He did some more digging. The street cops were useless, but Brass was the captain of the Homicide detectives -- he was even on TV occasionally, standing behind that bald fuck who was the undersheriff. So he called Brass's office, pretending to be Alana's nephew, and asked when they were going to find the bastards who killed her. The man had the _cojones_ to tell him that the case was ongoing. _"The case is ongoing," my Chicano ass._ Like anyone at the LVPD cared about some dead cleaning lady.

Well, he would give them a reason to care.

After that, he waited outside the parking garage at the police station, watching every car that came and went until he spotted Brass behind the wheel of a black Dodge Charger. He found out other things, like where Brass lived in Henderson. And that he had a daughter who worked evenings at a restaurant in the Henderson Galleria. _Pendejo_ didn't know how lucky he was, having a kid.

A bolt of lighting sizzled across the sky, and the rumble shook the car as the downpour thickened, smearing the windshield. He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and flicked on the wipers, staying just close enough to tail the Charger through the evening traffic.

Unsurprisingly, it wound up at the Galleria. The passenger side popped open, and a small shape wearing an oversized yellow slicker with **LVPD** across the back got out.

_Must be Brass's kid._ From the body language, she wasn't all that happy about wearing the cop raincoat. He could see Brass lean across the seat, saying something; the girl shook her head and turned, heading into the mall.

Now he just had to wait.

###

As soon as she was inside the mall, Ellie scooted into an alcove next to Auntie Anne's Pretzels and wiggled out of the slicker. "Just take it," Dad insisted. "I've got my duty jacket in the trunk. It'll keep you dry on the way home."

There were times when she could argue with him and win. Right before she was supposed to start her shift, however, was not one of them. So Ellie rolled her eyes and put on the waterproof yellow jacket, trying to ignore the fact that she now looked like an oversized bath toy. _The hell with the bus stop -- I'm taking a cab home. And I swear I am picking up some wheels the second I have enough cash--_

"Ellie?"

She turned and saw an attractive brunette toting a Sephora bag, and a memory clicked. _I think she works at the Crime Lab -- I met her that time Dad took me to breakfast with Catherine and Nick. __Wanda, Winnie--_ "Wendy?"

"Yeah," Wendy Simms said with a smile. She glanced at the slicker, and the smile turned into a grin. "Let me guess -- your dad?"

"Who else." Ellie hefted the slicker and grimaced. "He wouldn't take no for an answer."

"I bet he wouldn't. Well, at least you're dry," the DNA tech said. She made a face at the mall doors and the storm beyond. "I'm parked out in Ulan Bator, and I'm gonna get soaked before I can get to my car."

_Ding ding ding._ With a generous expression, Ellie held out the slicker. "Be my guest. Please."

Wendy's eyes went wide. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. I'm taking a cab home -- I won't need it."

"Well, if you're sure." The brunette took the slicker, sliding into it. "How do I look?"

Ellie couldn't help grinning. "Like a big rubber duck."

Wendy grinned back. "Yeah, but a big _dry_ rubber duck," she said. "I really appreciate this -- I'll drop it off with your dad tonight, okay?"

"Great. And if he gets cranky about it, please remind him that I won't melt."

"Got it. You have a good night."

"You, too." With a wave, Ellie turned and headed for Sullivan's._ Go me. Okay, I wonder how much I'd need for something like an old Tercel..._

###

As soon as she cleared the mall doors Wendy flipped the hood up, stepping out into the downpour. The Sephora bag with Mandy's birthday present was safely tucked under the slicker; her shoes and the hems of her slacks were getting soaked, but everything else would stay nice and dry for work tonight.

She hummed as she headed towards her car. Walking around in a slicker was actually kind of fun, like when she was a kid. Just for the hell of it, she splashed through a puddle, kicking up a spray of water. _Wonder if I can flick some of this on Hodges -- the look on his face would be priceless--_

She heard the squeal of a loose alternator belt, and an old car pulled up next to her. "Hey, lady, you know how to get to the 515 from here?" someone called.

She turned. "Yeah, just go--"

The words froze as a very large gun barrel slid through the open window, pointing directly at her.

"Get in the car, honey," the driver said. "Now."

###

Brass studied his tie rack, trying to decide between brown and black stripes and a gold herringbone for the mellow taupe suit laid out on the bed behind him. _It's not easy being a fashion plate, but someone's gotta do it. And damn, I make brown look good._

His cell phone buzzed. Still studying the ties, he pulled the phone out of his pocket. "Brass."

Silence. And then, "Daddy?"

He frowned. "Ellie?"

"Daddy." The strained female voice was familiar, but it didn't sound anything like Ellie. "Daddy, listen to me. It's very important. I need you to solve a murder for me, okay?"

He went cold. "Who is this?"

"Daddy, please listen. Her name was Alana Rodriguez. She was shot during a holdup at a 7-11. You need to solve her murder, or," the woman gulped, "or I won't be coming home. Alana Rodriguez, Daddy. Please help--"

The line went dead. Swearing, Brass stabbed at the phone's keypad, searching for call records and the last incoming call. _702-555-1966._ Not Ellie's number, and definitely not Ellie's voice.

So who the hell was calling him Daddy and begging him to solve a murder?

Grimly, he hit a number on speed dial and waited. "Yeah, Catherine, it's Jim. I think I've got a problem..."


	2. Chapter 2

Entry #5 in the "A Year in the Life" series. An open case of Brass's has knock-on effects in the form of a vengeful husband, and Wendy Simms is caught in the crossfire. You know the drill -- CSI is not my sandbox. If it were, Wendy would've thrown Hodges to the lab floor and had him by now.

* * *

It Catches Up To You  
by Alice Day

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

Sullivan's was busier than usual, thanks to the deluge outside, and most of the tables in the main room were jammed with thirsty shoppers waiting out the storm. Ellie grabbed a bottle out of the speed rack, upending it over the glass for a count of eight. A fill of Coke and a wedge of lime completed the drink; she put it and a dirty martini in front of the waitress. "Any more rum in that, and we'll have to charge him double," she told the waitress, a curly-haired redhead named Tracy. "And I hope to hell he's not driving."

"You and me both, girlfriend," Tracy said as she headed back to the table.

Shaking her head, Ellie scanned her bar customers -- a group of businessmen, three tanned and thoroughly blinged-up women on an obvious girl's night out, and one guy waiting for his date. The shy, hopeful look on his face reminded her of a certain upstate veterinarian. _Maybe he'll be on AIM later on -- I really should ask him about the vet program at UNLV. Or the convention. Or something. Um._

She grinned at herself._ Yeah, you don't like him at all, do you?_

The customers seemed good for the moment, and Tracy and Eric were still out in the main room working the tables -- time to wash glassware. Humming to herself, Ellie started running dirty rock and wine glasses through the bar sink's soapy water. She didn't notice the two police officers walk up to the bar until they signaled her.

Her reflex twinge of resentment towards badges was almost gone, and she gave the cops a pleasant smile as she dried her hands on a bar towel. "Hey -- you two off duty, or do you just want coffee?" she asked

The taller cop shook her head. "Neither. Are you Ellie Brass?"

Her smile faded. "Yeah -- why?"

"I'm Officer Havens, and this is Officer Smith," the cop said, nodding at her partner. "Las Vegas Police. We need to take you downtown."

Her hands clenched on the bar. _Keep it cool -- you didn't do anything._ "Can I see some ID?" she said, stalling.

Havens pulled out her wallet, flashing a LVMPD ID card. "Your d-- uh, Captain Brass," she cleared her throat, "said to tell you this wasn't prom, whatever that means. We're your protection detail."

_Protection detail?_ A chill went down Ellie's spine. "Protection? From what?"

Smith shrugged. "Captain didn't say, and we didn't ask," he said. "He did tell us that if anything happened to you before you got to his office, we'd be lucky if we got crossing guard duty in North Las Vegas."

Havens nodded agreement. "If your boss gives you grief, send him out here and we'll explain the situation," she added. "But you're coming with us now. That's a direct order from the captain."

Ellie pressed her lips together, a wave of irritation swamping the fear. She decided she preferred the irritation. "All right. I just need to get my purse."

Leaving the cops at the bar, she turned and headed for the manager's office. _Dad, you'd better be able to explain this..._

#

A half hour later, she walked into the Las Vegas Metro police department flanked by Havens and Smith. Memories of the last time she was there flashed through her, making her skin prickle. How many people were watching her, she thought, wondering what Captain Brass's wild child did this time?

_Screw 'em. Where's Dad?_

Her bodyguards took her through a maze of hallways to the captain's office. Brass looked up as the door opened, his relief almost tangible when he spotted Ellie. "Ah, good," he breathed. "Thanks, guys -- that'll be all."

He closed the office door behind the uniforms, then surprised Ellie when he pulled her into a strong hug. "First off, I'm sorry about yanking you out of work, honey," he said, his voice gruff. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Ellie allowed herself a moment to enjoy the hug, then pulled back. "Dad, they said they were my protection detail," she said. "Why do I need protection?"

He sighed, letting her go and guiding her to the couch. "I'm hoping you don't, but I wanted to cover all the bases," he said. "I got a call this evening from someone calling me Daddy, saying that I had to solve a murder or she wouldn't be coming home."

Ellie blanched. "Oh, my God. That wasn't me, I swear--"

"I know, honey -- it wasn't your voice or your number." His expression went flat. "But I think someone tried to kidnap you, Ellie. And they got the wrong girl."

The shock hit her like a punch to the gut. "Oh," she whispered. "Oh, _shit_. Who?"

"I don't know -- our A/V tech is tracking down the number right now," he said. "But whoever she is, she's smart enough to play along and call me Dad. If we're lucky, we'll get her out of this in one piece--"

His desk phone rang, and he reached for it. "Brass," he said, listening. His expression changed again, becoming intent. "Okay, we're on our way."

He hung up the phone. "I left my cell phone with Archie so he could set up a trace -- she called back again," he explained, standing up. "He got a partial trace and a recording of the woman's voice, so I need to go over to the lab. You're going to stay here--"

"Oh, hell no." She stood up, jaw sliding forward. "I'm coming with you."

Brass scowled. "You're gonna stay here where you're safe, Ellie."

"I'm safer if I'm with you. And I want to hear what this woman sounds like. If you're right--" _if someone tried to kidnap me, oh God _--"and this guy grabbed someone else by mistake, maybe I know her."

His eyes narrowed, but he nodded. "Okay, you've got a point. But you stay right by me, you understand?"

She nodded, suddenly wishing that he'd hold her hand, just for a moment. "Fine. Let's go."

#

Catherine Willows met them at the Crime Lab's reception desk. She smiled at Brass with her usual friendliness; only Ellie recognized the little spark in the Grave shift supervisor's eyes, and the answering glow in her dad's. "Archie's got everything keyed up for us," she said, walking with them to the audio/visual center. "Your mystery daughter didn't stay on the line very long, but we got some data."

Archie Johnson nodded at them as they entered the A/V lab. "I was able to run the number -- unfortunately, it's a pay as you go phone, so no way to verify the owner," he explained, his fingers dancing along the computer keyboard. In front of them, a monitor lit up with the broad squiggling signature of a sound file, while another monitor displayed a street map of Vegas. "I was able to triangulate the cell towers that relayed the signal -- it placed them somewhere between Pecos Road and Green Valley Parkway."

A section of the map highlighted in yellow. Brass made a disgusted noise. "Great," he said. "That's gonna be one hell of a door-to-door."

Archie shook his head. "Watch the signal progression."

He tapped a key, and the highlighted section shifted to a new cell, then to a third. "They're moving, probably in a car or van judging by the speed. Looks like they're heading north on Pecos."

Catherine studied the screen. "I'll get Greg to pull footage from the traffic cameras," she said. "If we can match a vehicle to the signal movement, we might be able to get the plates and run them."

"Good idea. Now here's the recording of the call." Another tap, and a woman's strained voice came out of the speakers. "Daddy, are you there? Please, say something."

Ellie shivered. "Captain Brass isn't here at the moment," Archie's recorded voice said. "Can I help you?"

There was an audible gulp. "Please, tell him to hurry. Find out who killed Alana Rodriguez. Uh, maybe Archie could help him--"

The phone call cut off, and the A/V tech turned to them. "Does that sound like anyone you know, Ellie?"

The blonde stared at the monitor, trying to nail down a vague memory. "I...no, I don't think so."

"Captain Brass?"

The Homicide captain scowled. "I dunno -- it sounds kind of familiar, but I can't place it with a face."

Archie sighed. "That's what I thought. Catherine, she asked for me by name -- how could she do that if she doesn't know Ellie or the captain? Unless--"

Catherine's eyes narrowed, then suddenly went wide. "--she knows the Crime Lab. Oh, _hell._ Play it again, Archie."

He did. The Grave shift supervisor shook her head, as if trying to shake a memory loose. "I _know_ that voice," she said. "I'll do a headcount, see if any women on Grave are missing--"

"Don't bother."

All four turned to the lab door. David Hodges stood there, his narrow face pale and strained. "That was Wendy's voice," he said tightly. "She's not here, and she hasn't called in sick."

Ellie clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified. "Oh, my God," she breathed. "Wendy _Simms_?"

"You know her?" Hodges demanded.

"I ran into her tonight, before work."

"Where?" her dad said, warding off the Trace tech. "Give us details, Ellie."

"Um." She ran a shaking hand through her hair. "I-it was at the west entrance of the Galleria, near the club. It was still raining, and she didn't have an umbrella or anything, so I gave her your slicker. She said she'd give it back to you tonight." Her eyes became huge. "She put the hood up. I remember that."

"He must've thought she was you," Brass said, picturing the scenario. "She goes outside, keeps her head down to stay dry -- he grabs her in the parking lot. Catherine, have Archie check the traffic cameras and keep monitoring the phone -- I'm going to send a couple of uniforms over to the Galleria, get their security tapes and check the parking lot."

"I'll send Greg with them. But if he left any evidence, it's probably gone in this rain," Catherine pointed out.

"I want it checked anyway," Brass growled. "This fucker took one of ours -- we are _not_ losing her. And you," he turned to Ellie, "are not stepping foot out of my sight without two uniforms on your six, you hear me?"

Hodges moved in. "What do you want me to do?"

Catherine put a hand on the Trace tech's arm. "David, go back to Trace and clear the boards -- if Greg finds anything from the parking lot, it gets priority," she said.

Hodges nodded and almost ran out of the lab. "What was that about?" Brass asked.

She shook her head. "He took his hero worship a little too far," she said cryptically. "I'll explain later -- let's work on finding Wendy."

As they consulted with Archie, Ellie backed up against the lab wall, arms wrapped around her ribcage as she stared at the floor. _God, please, if you're out there, don't let Wendy die because of me. Please._

_Please._

#

The house was small, and smelled like old cologne and stale air. Wendy sat on the edge of a battered leather couch, trying not to stare at the man pacing the small, cluttered living room. At the other end of the couch, an old man glared at both of them, his face furrowed in anger.

After she got into the old car, her kidnapper handed her a disposable phone and told her to call her father. The first thing that came to her mind was _At least I'll get the chance to say goodbye_. It wasn't until the man said, "_Papi_ Brass better get his ass in gear and find out who killed my Alana" that she figured out what was happening. _He must've seen a girl in an LVPD slicker get out of Brass's car, and followed her._

_And wound up with me._

One piece of sheer stupid luck worked in her favor -- the week before, during one of their running spat/flirt sessions, Hodges was showing off how he'd memorized the cell numbers of everyone on the Grave shift. She decided to go one better and memorize the cell numbers for the Homicide detectives, too. If she hadn't been able to pull Captain Brass's number out of her head, she suspected her dead body would have been dumped in an alley by now.

After the second call, the man grabbed the phone out of her hand. "Who's Archie?" he growled. "You trying to pull something on me?"

Wendy shook her head. "Archie works in the crime lab," she said, trying to sound younger. The frightened tone came naturally. "Dad says he's really good at getting evidence."

The man's cold, dark eyes studied her for what felt like an eternity, but he finally nodded. "Okay, you can call _papi_ again later. Time to go home."

He grabbed her seat belt, yanking it tight. Wendy gasped at the sudden pressure, trying to stay calm. She knew the statistics; after the first 48 hours, the chances of a kidnapping victim surviving their ordeal dropped like a stone. In those 48 hours, though, anything could happen. _I should've listened to Ray and finished the CSI training -- at least I'd be armed._

A sudden burst of black humor shot through her. _Oh, right, like you could've cleared your holster from under a damn slicker. Who are you -- Xena, Warrior DNA Technician?_

They followed a meandering path north, past the city limits and into North Las Vegas. She vaguely recognized the area -- small, battered stucco houses, gravel front yards, dingy storefronts with signs in Spanish. The man finally turned into a driveway, pulling into an opened carport. He turned off the engine and pulled the gun out of his coat again, holding it on her. "Do anything stupid, chica, and I'll shoot you -- you got that?" he said.

She swallowed hard and nodded.

"Good. Get out and go straight through that door. I'll be right behind you."

And that was how she wound up in a little stucco house somewhere in North Las Vegas. She still didn't know the name of the old man propped up on the other end of the couch

The kidnapper stopped in front of her. "Okay, this is what we're gonna do," he said. "While you're here, you're gonna take care of Grandpa over there," he jerked his head at the old man. "Take him to the john, feed him, whatever. You got that?"

She risked a glance at the old man. The anger in his face was deeper now, overlaid with humiliation. "All right," she said quietly.

The kidnapper studied her. "I'm hungry. Go check out the fridge, see what Grandpa has. Make us some dinner."

She nodded again, getting to her feet and heading into the tiny kitchen. _I'm going to get through this, dammit. I'm going back to the lab, and I'll give Mandy her birthday present, and then I'm walking into Trace, and screw the fraternization rules -- I am laying the biggest, juiciest kiss on that stupid smart guy._

She blinked hard against the water rising in her eyes. _Dammit, David. If I get killed before I even get to kiss you, I am going to be __**so**__ pissed at you..._


	3. Chapter 3

Entry #5 in the "A Year in the Life" series. An open case of Brass's has knock-on effects in the form of a vengeful husband, and Wendy Simms is caught in the crossfire. You know the drill -- CSI is not my sandbox. If it were, Vartann would not be trying to mack on Catherine, that's for damn sure...

* * *

It Catches Up To You  
by Alice Day

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

Brass entered the bullpen, nodding at the uniforms waiting for him. "Okay, we got a missing lab tech and a kidnapper with an agenda," he announced, passing out printouts with the LVPD watermark. "A/V says the scumbag drives a tan Chevy, probably a Lumina -- we're working on getting the plates. He's connected to that 7-11 shooting in North Las Vegas a couple of months ago -- Mitchell, you and Metcalf worked it, so Nick Stokes will be talking to you two. Keep your radios on."

The mustached cop and his partner nodded. "Akers, you head out to the Galleria with the CSIs," Brass continued, "check any shops overlooking the parking lot, see if anyone saw this guy. Beltran, Tomasek, you're with me tonight. The rest of you, keep an eye out for the Lumina. As soon as we can get plates or a good make on the kidnapper, we'll get it out to you."

His expression changed, turning grim. "I know this probably made the rounds already, but the scumbag was aiming for my kid," he said. "So I do not want mistakes, or slip-ups, or anything that'll let some lawyer spring this guy on a technicality. You find him, you take him down nice and legal, and you bring back Wendy Simms in one piece, understood?"

"Yessir," echoed through the room.

"Dismissed," Brass said. As the uniforms filed out, he glanced across the hall at his office, where Ellie was fidgeting in one of his chairs. Until they caught the kidnapper, she was going to be on lockdown with a cop on her tail wherever she went. And she wasn't going to like that one bit.

He crossed the hallway to his office. Ellie jumped a little when he opened the door, and his heart hurt at the flash of fear in her eyes. "Hi, honey," he rumbled, taking the seat next to her. "Hey, you thirsty? I can get you a Coke or something."

She shook her head. "Did you find out anything about Wendy?"

"The CSIs are going out to the parking lot right now, and I put out a BOLO on the guy's car. Everyone in the field has her picture, and we're taking another look at the murder she mentioned, see if we can find a connection there." He leaned across the gap between their chairs, covering her hand with his own. "We're gonna find her, okay?"

She nodded, but there wasn't any belief in the gesture. "It's my fault. If I hadn't given her that stupid slicker--"

"No, Ellie," Brass said, his tone low and absolutely certain. "Don't do that to yourself. You were doing her a favor -- this isn't your fault."

"I didn't want to wear it," she mumbled. "It made me look like a duck."

He sat back, studying the guilt churning across his daughter's features. _Christ, I wish I could give you a hug. But that would just make things worse, wouldn't it?_ "Yeah, they aren't exactly stylish, are they?" he commiserated. "But you didn't do anything wrong here, okay? You were trying to do her a favor _and_ get rid of the hideous thing your overprotective pop made you wear." At her wan smile, he forged on. "Listen to me, Ellie -- the only one at fault here is the guy who kidnapped Wendy. Who was trying to kidnap _you_. We're going to find the sonofabitch -- I promise you that."

To his relief, the guilt and fear in her dark eyes finally alchemized into anger. "Good. Find him and take the fucker down, Dad."

Brass nodded, understanding the hidden meaning in her order. Both of them knew the streets; neither had to mention the odds that Wendy Simms would be coming back to the Crime Lab in a body bag.

#

Catherine strode into the break room, trying to ignore the images churning through her memory -- Nick being pulled out of that ant-infested box; Sara staggering, dehydrated and lost, through the desert; Warrick's blood on the window of his car. _Two wins, one loss -- so does that mean we'll get Wendy back, or is Fate going to be a bitch this time and balance the scales? _

She nodded at the waiting CSIs. "All right -- as of now, finding Wendy is our first priority," she said out loud. "You've got anything else, put it on the back burner. Nick, I want you to take the Alana Rodriguez case." She handed him a case file. "Go over it with a fine tooth comb. If we can prove good faith to the kidnapper, that might buy Wendy more time."

Nick opened the file. "Swing shift handled this one," he said with a frown. "Looks like they didn't find much at the scene."

"Which is why the case stalled," Catherine said. "The scene's been compromised by now, so you'll have to work with what Swing collected. Greg, you and Riley head out to the Galleria in Henderson, go over the parking lot near the west entrance, see if you can find anything."

"Got it," Greg said, with Riley nodding.

"What about me, Catherine," Ray asked.

The supervisor gave him a humorless smile. "You're with me tonight, Ray -- we're going to handle the rest of the cases. Ecklie promised to call in some Swing CSIs, but for now it's just us." She gazed at the rest of the team. "It's going to be a long night, so let's get going.

As the team filed out of the break room, a strained-looking Hodges edged out of one of the labs, cutting Catherine off. "I need to talk to you," he said.

_Why am I not surprised?_ She took his arm and guided him away from the CSIs. "We haven't gotten any more information on Wendy--"

Hodges shook his head, pulling out of her grasp. "I know," he interrupted. "I want to help -- in the field, I mean. I've already called Enrique from Swing, and he'll cover Trace for me."

Catherine knew that the Trace tech had qualified for CSI Level 1 status during his stint with the Los Angeles Crime Lab. _He requested that this information not be made publically available, _Grissom explained to her the first time Hodges showed up at a crime scene in a CSI vest, _but he's willing to fill in when necessary. As you can understand, it's a resource I don't want to call on unless I have to._

_Yeah, I definitely understand that._ "I didn't think you and Enrique got along that well," she said. "In fact, didn't you call him a trained monkey who bought his degree from an online diploma mill?"

Hodges flushed. "Okay, maybe I did," he muttered. "But he likes Wendy, so he agreed to come in. Look, I know you're still shorthanded -- having another body in the field can't hurt, and if Enrique runs into a problem here I can always come back in."

She thought about the stack of assignment slips still on her desk. Having another CSI meant that she wouldn't have to wait Ecklie to round up someone from Swing or Day shift. "I already have all the slots filled on Wendy's case," she warned. "You'll be working with Ray and me."

His lips thinned, but he nodded. "I understand. Just...let me get out there."

She realized he wanted to listen to the radio communication, just in case anything came in about Wendy. "All right," she said, more gently. "There's a B&E in Henderson that just came in -- you'll work it with Ray."

Hodges nodded and turned to go.

"Wait." She hated herself for her next question, but as supervisor she had to ask. "Look, I need to know -- are you two dating?"

The Trace tech's face twitched guiltily, but he shook his head. "A romantic relationship between two members on the same shift is against departmental regulations, not to mention a distraction in the lab--"

"And we all know how well that worked with Grissom and Sara," she cut him off.

Hodges paused, his usual smart-ass smarminess dissolving into something more human. "We're not dating. If we started dating, one of us would have to leave Grave, and with the difference in our schedules we'd never see each other," he admitted. "We thought -- well, I thought this would be the smart thing to do."

Catherine sighed. "Hodges, staying away from someone you care about because of a damn job is never 'the smart thing to do,'" she said. "And I speak from bitter experience, okay? After we get her back, take her out on a freaking date or something. We'll worry about the rules later."

He nodded jerkily. "Yes, ma'am."

"Okay. Go grab your vest and meet Ray out at the Denali -- the sooner you two get started, the better."

#

Wendy stood at the tiny sink, running a scrubbing sponge over the old Corell plates. The kidnapper seemed satisfied with the hamburger casserole she put together, although the old man just pushed his helping around the plate. "I tore a muscle in my jaw -- can't open my mouth real good," he muttered when she asked if he wanted anything else. "S'okay -- I'm not real hungry these days."

She nodded, surreptitiously studying him from under her lashes. His skin had a papery texture and sagged more than it should, as if he'd just lost a lot of weight. _Cancer? Jesus, what if he's on chemo?_ Although that was actually a positive thing; if he didn't show up for a chemo treatment, someone would notice and come looking for him.

Wouldn't they?

Frowning, she rinsed the plate and stacked it in the ancient drying rack, then sluiced out the sink. Once that was done, she looked around the tiny kitchen, trying to look busy while she searched for something that could be used as a weapon. All of the kitchen knives were gone, even the butter knives; she assumed the kidnapper had gotten rid of them earlier. _Maybe there's a rolling pin or a meat tenderizer in one of the drawers--_

"Whatcha looking for?"

She spun, swallowing hard when she saw the tall Latino leaning against the kitchen doorway. "Just wanted to make sure I washed everything," she said, hating the squeaky tone in her voice.

"Uh-huh." Hard brown eyes did a fast scan of the cabinets and countertops. "Looks fine to me. Go back to the couch."

She nodded. Keeping her head down, she managed to squeeze past him, the old painted wood of the doorway scraping her shoulder blades in the process. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she caught a quick grin.

_Bastard._

She sat down gingerly in what she already thought of as "her spot" on the couch. The old man was still propped up in the other corner, his head slumped to the side. His eyes were open, however, and looked alert.

"You okay?" he rasped.

"Yeah." She tried for a smile. "Do you need anything? Some water?"

"Nah."

The kidnapper came over, pulling a set of cuffs out of his back pocket. "Okay, this is what's gonna happen," he said, taking one of Wendy's wrists and pulling her to her feet. "I got the front door and the screen door locked, and there ain't no back door. Grandpa here can't walk too good, so I'm not worried about him. You," he spun her around, not roughly but with no real care, pulling her wrists behind her back and cuffing them together, "try to run, or scream, or do anything that's gonna piss me off, and I'll hurt you. And then I'll hurt Grandpa. You got that?"

She nodded, her throat dry.

"Good." He pushed her back onto the couch, and she landed with a short huff of breath. "We'll call Papi in a couple of hours, see if he got off his ass. Meanwhile, I gotta take a piss -- you two stay nice and quiet while I'm in the john, you got it?"

"Got it," she muttered.

With a grunt, he sauntered out of the room and down the short hallway. A door clicked shut.

"What's your name, kid?"

She looked at the old man, who was flexing arthritic fingers. "Wendy."

"I'm Mike," he muttered. "Look, I'm a cop -- retired, but I still got my guns. Shitbag in there didn't find 'em when he shook me down. They're in a gunbox in my bedroom, in the bottom dresser drawer. Key's on the key ring on the dresser -- it's a little gold one, you can't miss it."

She turned, craning her neck to peer through the doorway. An unmade bed was visible in a room across the hall. "I don't think I have enough time," she whispered, trying to estimate how long it would take to unlock something with her hands cuffed behind her back.

"No, not now." The old man glared at a wall where she guessed the bathroom was. "But shitbag's gotta take a dump sometime. When that happens, you go get my piece. If you can't get it to me, you shoot the fucker."

"Me?"

"Yeah, you. I can't get off this fucking couch, and my kids--"

The toilet flushed, and they jerked back into their respective corners. The kidnapper walked back into the living room and paused, giving both of them a sharp look. "You two behave yourselves?"

"What do you think?" the old man growled.

The kidnapper snorted. "I think we got some time to kill, old man," he said, sitting down in an old La-Z-Boy on the other side of the living room. Wendy's gut went cold when he pulled out his gun, but he put it within easy reach on the side table and picked up a remote instead. "Let's see what's on the tube."

#

Greg wiped the rain off his face, studying the parking lot. The downpour was finally slacking off, but the damage was done; if any trace had been left by Wendy's kidnapper, it was in the storm drains by now.

On the far end of the section, he saw Riley doing a step-by-step examination of the asphalt, her MagLite beam sweeping back and forth with metronomic regularity. "Hey," he called, "you find anything?"

Her capped head came up, and she shook her head. "Not even a cigarette butt. This has to be the cleanest parking lot in Vegas," she called back.

"Damn." He pulled his cell phone from a semi-dry inside pocket and hit speed dial.

"Willows."

"Catherine, we've been all over this lot," he reported. "There's nothing here. I can't even get a tire track."

On the other end, the Grave supervisor sighed. "Okay, at least we tried. Come on back to the lab -- we need to start processing the footage from the mall security cameras."

"On our way." Greg snapped the phone shut, shoving it back in his jacket pocket as he jogged over to Riley. "Catherine said to come on back."

The blonde CSI swiped at a damp bang underneath her cap, frowning at the wet asphalt. "This doesn't feel right," she said. "Most kidnappers learn their target's schedule, when they're the most vulnerable."

"You're assuming this guy's a pro."

"It's not about being a pro -- it's about doing your homework," Riley replied. "The captain said he usually drops Ellie off at work, so the kidnapper wouldn't risk grabbing her on the way into the club in case Brass was still there. It makes more sense to grab her after work -- so why was he here so early?"

Greg tried to picture the scene in his head -- the kidnapper waiting in his car, watching the entrance of the mall, seeing Captain Brass's Charger pull up and a woman in a yellow LVPD slicker get out. Something nagged at him. "It doesn't feel planned."

"It's opportunistic," Riley agreed. "When he saw Wendy, he thought she was Ellie and grabbed the chance."

"And her," Greg added, suddenly seeing it. A kidnapper would study his target, find out where they lived, what they did -- _he had to follow them._ "He tracked them here from somewhere else."

The other CSI nodded. "And that 'somewhere else' may have security cameras. We need to find out where Brass was before he dropped Ellie off tonight."


End file.
